The room was musty and close, as though the rainy season had
not passed, and the floor was hard mud. Through crude wooden shutters
they could glimpse the early sun stoking anew for the day's inferno,
but now it merely washed the earthen walls in stripes of golden light.
Hawksworth stood by the window examining the grassy square that spanned
out toward the river. The porters, in whose lodge they were confined,
milled about the open area, chanting and sweating as they unloaded
large bales of cotton from the two-wheeled bullock carts that
continually rolled into the square. He steadied himself against the
heavy wooden frame of the window and wondered if his land legs would
return before the day was out.
"God curse all Moors." Mackintosh stooped over the tray resting on the
grease-smudged center carpet and pulled a lid from one of the earthen
bowls. He stared critically at the dense, milky liquid inside, then
gingerly dipped in a finger and took a portion to his lips. He tested
the substance--tangy curds smelling faintly of spice--and his face
hardened.
"Tis damned spoilt milk." He spat fiercely onto the carpet and seized a
piece of fried bread to purge the taste. "Fitter for swine than men."
"What'd they do with the samples?" Elkington sprawled heavily in the
corner, his eyes bloodshot from the all-night vigil upriver. "With no
guards the heathens'll be thievin' the lot." He squinted toward the
window, but made no effort to move. His exhaustion and despair were
total.
"The goods are still where they unloaded them." Hawksworth revolved
toward the room. "They say nothing happens till the Shahbandar
arrives."
"What'd they say about him?" Elkington slowly drew himself to his feet.
"They said he arrives at mid morning, verifies his seal on the customs
house door, and then orders it opened. They also said that all traders
must be searched personally by his officers. He imposes duty on
everything, right down to the shillings in your pocket."
"Damn'd if I'll pay duty. Not for samples."
"That's what I said. And they ignored me. It seems to be law."
Hawksworth noticed that the gold was dissolving from the dawn sky,
surrendering to a brilliant azure. He turned, scooped a portion of
curds onto a piece of fried bread, and silently chewed as he puzzled
over the morning. And the night before.
Who had saved them? And why? Did someone in India hate the Portuguese
so much they would defend the English before even knowing who they
were? No one in India could know about King James's letter, about the
East India Company's plans. No one. Even George Elkington did not know
everything. Yet someone in India already wanted the English alive. He
had wrestled with the question for the rest of the trip upriver, and he
could think of no answers. They had been saved for a reason, a reason
he did not know, and that worried him even more than the Portuguese.
Without a pilot they had had to probe upriver slowly, sounding for
sandbars with an oar. Finally, when they were near exhaustion, the
river suddenly curved and widened. Then, in the first dim light of
morning, they caught the unmistakable outlines of a harbor. It had to
be Surat. The river lay north-south now, with the main city sprawled
along its eastern shore. The tide began to fall back, depleted, and he
realized they had timed its flow perfectly.
As they waited for dawn, the port slowly revealed itself in the eastern
glow. Long stone steps emerged directly from the Tapti River and
broadened into a wide, airy square flanked on three sides by massive
stone buildings. The structure on the downriver side was obviously a
fortress, built square with a large turret at each corner, and along
the top of walls Hawksworth could see the muzzles of cannon--they looked
to be eight-inchers--trained directly on the water. And in the waning
dark he spotted tiny points of light, spaced regularly along the top of
the fortress walls. That could only mean one thing.
"Mackintosh, ship the oars and drop anchor. We can't dock until
daylight."
"Aye, Cap'n, but why not take her in now? We can see to make a
landin'."
"And they can see us well enough to position their cannon. Look
carefully along there." Hawksworth directed his gaze toward the top of
the fortress. "They've lighted linstocks for the guns."
"Mother of God! Do they think we're goin' to storm their bleedin'
harbor with a pinnace?"
"Probably a standard precaution. But if we hold here, at least we'll
keep at the edge of their range. And we'd better put all weapons out of
sight. I want them to see a pinnace of friendly traders at sunup."
The dawn opened quickly, and as they watched, the square blossomed to
life. Large two-wheeled carts appeared through the half-dark, drawn by
muscular black oxen, some of whose horns had been tipped in silver. One
by one the oxen lumbered into the square, urged forward by the shouts
and beatings of turbaned drivers who wore folded white skirts instead
of breeches. Small fires were kindled by some of the men, and the
unmistakable scent of glowing dung chips savored the dark clouds of
smoke that drifted out across the river's surface.
Then Hawksworth first noticed the bathers that had appeared along the
shore on either side of the stone steps: brown men stripped to
loincloths and women in brilliantly colored head-to-toe wraps were
easing themselves ceremoniously into the chilled, mud-colored water,
some bowing repeatedly in the direction of the rising sun. Only the
waters fronting the stairway remained unobstructed.
When the dawn sky had lightened to a muted red, Hawksworth decided to
start their move. He surveyed the men crowded in the pinnace one last
time, and read in some faces expectation and in others fear. But in all
there was bone-deep fatigue. Only Elkington seemed fully absorbed in
the vision that lay before them.
Even from their distance the Chief Merchant was already assessing the
goods being unloaded from the carts: rolls of brown cloth, bundles of
indigo, and bales of combed cotton fiber. He would point, then turn and
gesture excitedly as he lectured Spencer.
The young clerk was now a bedraggled remnant of fashion in the powder-
smudged remains of his new doublet. The plumed hat he had worn as they
cast off had been lost in the attack downriver, and now he crouched in
the bottom of the pinnace, humiliated and morose, his eyes vacant.
"Mackintosh, weigh anchor. We'll row to the steps. Slowly."
The men bobbed alert as they hoisted the chain into the prow of the
pinnace. Oars were slipped noisily into their rowlocks and Mackintosh
signaled to get underway.
As they approached the stairway, alarmed cries suddenly arose from the
sentinels stationed on stone platforms flanking either side of the
steps. In moments a crowd collected along the river, with turbaned men
shouting in a language Hawksworth could not place and gesturing the
pinnace away from the dock. What could they want, he asked himself? Who
are they? They're not armed. They don't look hostile. Just upset.
"Permission to land." Hawksworth shouted to them in Turkish, his voice
slicing through the din and throwing a sudden silence over the crowd.
"The customs house does not open until two hours before midday," a
tall, bearded man shouted back. Then he squinted toward the pinnace.
"Who are you? Portuguese?"
"No, we're English." So that's it, Hawksworth thought. They assumed we
were Portugals with a boatload of booty. Here for a bit of private
trade.
The man examined the pinnace in confusion. Then he shouted again over
the waters.
"You are not Portuguese?"
"I told you we're English."
"Only Portuguese _topiwallahs_ are allowed to trade." The man was now
scrutinizing the pinnace in open perplexity.
"We've no goods for trade. Only samples." Hawksworth tried to think of
a way to confound the bureaucratic mind. "We only want food and drink."
"You cannot land at this hour."
"In name of Allah, the Merciful." Hawksworth stretched for his final
ploy, invocation of that hospitality underlying all Islamic life.
Demands can be ignored. A traveler's need, never. "Food and drink for
my men."
Miraculously, it seemed to work. The bearded man stopped short and
examined them again closely. Then he turned and dictated rapidly to the
group of waiting porters. In moments the men had plunged into the
chilled morning water, calling for the mooring line of the pinnace. As
they towed the pinnace into the shallows near the steps, other porters
swarmed about the boat and gestured to indicate the English should
climb over the gunwales and be carried ashore.
They caught hold of George Elkington first. He clung futilely to the
gunwales as he was dragged cursing from the bobbing pinnace and hoisted
on the backs of two small Indian men. Arms flailing, he toppled himself
from their grasp and splashed backward into the muddy Tapti. After he
floated to the surface, sputtering, he was dragged bodily from the
water and up the steps. Then the others were carried ashore, and only
Mackintosh tried to protest.
The last to leave the pinnace, Hawksworth hoisted himself off the prow
and onto the back of a wiry Indian whose thin limbs belied their
strength. The man's turban smelled faintly of sweat, but his well-worn
shirt was spotless. His dark eyes assessed Hawksworth with a practiced
sidelong glance, evaluating his attire, his importance, and the
approximate cash value of his sword in a single sweep.
Only after the porters had deposited them on the stone steps did
Hawksworth finally realize that India's best port had no wharf, that
human backs served as the loading platform for all men and goods. As he
looked around, he also noticed they had been surrounded by a crowd of
men, not identified by turbans as were the porters but uniformed more
expensively and wielding long, heavy canes. Wordlessly, automatically,
the men aligned themselves in two rows to create a protected pathway
leading up the steps and into the square. Hawksworth watched as they
beat back the gathering crowd of onlookers with their canes, and he
suddenly understood this was how the port prevented traders from
passing valuables to an accomplice in the crowd and circumventing
customs.
Then the tall bearded man approached Hawksworth, smiled professionally,
and bowed in the manner of Karim, hands together at the brow. "You are
welcome in the name of the Shahbandar, as a guest only, not as a
trader."
Without further greeting he directed them across the open square toward
a small stone building. "You will wait in the porters' lodge until the
customs house opens." As he ordered the heavy wooden door opened, he
curtly added, "The Shahbandar will rule whether your presence here is
permitted."
He had watched them enter, and then he was gone. Shortly after, the
food had appeared.
Hawksworth examined the room once more, its close air still damp with
the chill of dawn. The walls were squared, and the ceiling high and
arched. In a back corner a niche had been created, and in it rested a
small round stone pillar, presumably a religious object but one
Hawksworth did not recognize. Who would venerate a column of stone, he
mused, particularly one which seems almost like a man's organ? It can't
be the Muslims. They worship their own organs like no other race, but
they generally honor their law against icons. So it must be for the
gentiles, the Hindus. Which means that the porters are Hindus and their
overseers Moors. That's the privilege of conquerors. Just like every
other land the Moors have seized by the sword.
He glanced again at the tray and noted that the food had been
completely devoured, consumed by ravenous seamen who would have scorned
to touch milk curds six months before. After a moment's consideration,
Hawksworth turned and seated himself on the edge of the carpet. There's
nothing to be done. We may as well rest while we have the chance.